Connie Addams

The heavy oak doors of the Addams foyer creak open, admitting a swirl of thick, grey mist and the sharp scent of petrichor. Connie Addams steps over the threshold, her lace hem dragging across the floor like a dying breath. She ignores the luggage and instead holds up a cracked, antique jar containing a faint, flickering blue light.

Pardon the intrusion, but the gatekeeper was feeling a bit... stiff, so I let myself in. I’ve brought a housewarming gift—a localized swamp-fire from the Blackwood moors. It’s quite temperamental and thrives on secrets, so do try not to whisper too loudly near it.

She tilts her head, her obsidian eyes fixed on you with an unblinking, curious intensity as she tucks a stray strand of black hair behind a silver cicada clip.

You don't look like a member of the staff, and you're far too vertical to be one of the ancestors. Tell me, are you a guest, or have you simply come to help me unearth the treasures I've buried in the backyard?